Tears
by Paper-chan
Summary: AU. Tybalt Wins.


AN: I would just like to state right off the bat that I disapprove of Romeo and Juliet as a romance. I feel that it glorifies bad decision making, thinking with your hormones, and portrays teen suicide as romantic.

That said, I attended a production that my roommate was in, and truly enjoyed it. (Hey, I said I disapprove of it as a ROMANCE. This production was rather differently, delightfully portrayed.) The set was elegant and versatile; the costuming was not only opulent, but in part explored the aspects and relationships of various characters, and the setting of America 'Golden Age,' 1920s High Society, highlighted and explored the underlying element of greed and power mongering that I hadn't really noticed before. It was very interesting.

My analysis of the play is not, however, why I am posting. Since the play was set in the 1920s, there were no swords. Instead, they dueled with pistols. And, of course, Romeo went around grabbing at said (loaded) pistols with alarming frequency. I had a random, idle thought of how it was a miracle the hot-head hadn't killed himself (accidentally.) Then I sat bolt upright. Romeo could easily have been killed by Tybalt. In fact, I've always rather gotten the impression that the Prince of Cats was a superior duelist. In contrast, Romeo was a hopeless romantic, whose regular hobby seemed to be mooning around. And fights are rather unpredictable, are they not? Romeo could easily have died. How would the story have ended then?

And I couldn't help it. I had to write the idea up. It's rather melodramatic, but I believe that's just staying true to the spirit of R&J. So, enjoy, or not, my bizarre little plot bunny.

XxXxXxXxX

She had been married three hours when she found out. She was 13 and a widow. Of course, no one else knew, except her nurse and Friar Lawrence. It had been a secret; a beautiful, wonderful secret. She had been so happy for those three perfect, joyous, impatient hours. Then her nurse had come to her, crying, to tell her lady of her husband's fate.

Juliet processed it numbly. Tybalt had slain him. She said the reasons were unimportant. She didn't care anymore. Nurse told her anyway. Though Tybalt himself was mortally wounded, he had bid the nurse give a message to Juliet. He told her of Rosiline, and how Romeo had professed to love her until just the day before. Such fickle affections would have been of no consequence, had he not turned them on another maiden of the Capulet house, and one that seemed far less opposed to him. To make the matter worse, the Montague Dog had been seen stealing from the garden by Juliet's room late that night. To uphold the honor his cousin, and of the House of Capulet, he had intended to duel the villain. He had, and though nearly dead himself, felt justice had been upheld. He told her that it had been his privilege to die for her honor.

And then Juliet cried. She cried for the brief, bright passion she had shared with Romeo, for her dear cousin's pride and death, and for the hate that festered between her beloved's house and her own. She had hoped, with childish idealism, that their love would end that bitterness and hatred of those houses which had been so recently, fleetingly been united.

And no one could ever know. She would not add further to the outrage of either side. She would cry, and hold her memories and pain within her heart. She had done enough damage already. The old feud had been resurrected with a vengeance, and Prince Escalus was struggling to control them.

In an effort to lift Juliet from her seeming despair over her cousin's death, and to cement a measure of power, Lord Capulet agreed to Paris and Juliet's marriage. Juliet, now empty and hollow, said she didn't care, it didn't matter, nothing did. She had married for her heart once before and it had ended in disaster, she thought. It was a good thing she had decided not to have a heart anymore.

Her second wedding was nothing like her first. It was opulent. She was surrounded by family. There was music and gaiety. Everyone wished her well. She didn't love the bridegroom. Only Friar Lawrence presiding over the ceremony was the same. And if his intonations were more somber in this second wedding, that was just fine. She felt rather detached from the proceedings, with a vague idea that she wasn't terribly eager about it herself. She was even grateful for the lack of feeling, as it helped her though the festivities with decorum. A thought drifted idly through her mind, about the irony of retaining her Capulet pride when she had lost all else; when her thrice-cursed familial pride had _led_ to the loss of all else. If she could feel her fractured frozen heart, she was sure it would be breaking once more.

It wasn't until that night, alone with Paris, that her mask cracked. When the dam that had been holding back her emotions burst, when the wall closing off her heart crumbled, when Paris kissed her, and the girl cried once more.

So it was, as the bridegroom kissed his sweet, young bride, he tasted bitter tears.


End file.
